


in this shirt i can be you, to be near you for a while

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Previously Called "If I Loved You Less", Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Jester Lavorre is handsome, clever and rich. She lives a comfortable and pleasant life in the Lavish Chateau.Lord Widogast's presence though, in Nicodranas... it has been gratifying in a way she hasn't expected. Jester would quite like to help her strange neighbour find someone to love and from whom to be loved.[Or: AnEmmaAU.]
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	in this shirt i can be you, to be near you for a while

**Author's Note:**

> AAAA HEHEHHEHHE JANE AUSTEN AU <3 <3 <3
> 
> Lyrics of the title from _I Am Lost_ by The Irrepressibles.

Jester Lavorre is handsome, clever and rich. These are universal truths.

Well. The _handsomeness_ of her has the unfortunate quality of being persistently perceived in the afterglow of the brilliant visage of her mother, the guests blinking out the light that seems to proverbially emanate from her before casting their gazes upon… Jester.

There is something doltish about Jester, high society agrees. They may not say it to her face but Artagan tells her their snivelling opinions, painting her nails or pressing a ribbon against her slender waist as they muse about what exactly might suit her best, what colours might highlight her complexion, might accentuate _my curvesssss, Arty_ , she groaned, until he pulled the ribbon tight and the swell of her breasts was finally revealed through the swathes of cloth. _Yesssssssss_ —

The _cleverness_ too, is tragically a matter of quite heated debate. It is certainly agreed upon amongst the high courts of Nicodranas that Lady Marion Lavorre’s daughter is quite talented when it comes to the arts, and a pleasant conversationalist all around. Truly, it is one of the marvels of Nicodranas, Lord Robert Sharpe sneered to one of the marquis to the south, from the rumours that Artagan dutifully passed onto Jester herself, Jester Lavorre’s ability to talk. 

The two of them were experimenting with braiding their hair, deciding if it complimented the shapes of their faces to have their beautiful endless strands so tied back, when Jester wailed, “He’s such a dick to meeeeee,” burying her face in her hands. Darkness in the shape of her fingers clouded her vision, and Jester through them could see Artagan’s tanned face, see his soft lips widen until they broke into a smile at the tragedy in her voice. The walls were painted a gentle, delectable blue, a lighter shade than Jester’s own freckled skin, and on top of that various designs of Jester’s own making dotted the surfaces. Sunflowers there, roses over there, the grand spire of the Ikithon estate _wayyyyyyy_ over there.

Jester Lavorre spends an embarrassingly long time craning her neck out the window looking at the east spire of the Ikithon estate.

Artagan was _laughing_ at her, and his frame was buried in different clothes, the items of Jester’s closet scattered on the floor as they searched for a shirt that would suit her skirt just right, just perfectly. “Oh, Jester,” he simpered. “They can deny, deny, deny your brains and your talent and your art and your cleverness.” His voice was smug.

Jester lowered her hands and pointed them accusatorially at them. “That doesn’t make me feel better,” she groaned, but her pointed ears were perked up. Artagan, the mighty Traveler—it’s what the courts called him, sardonically, he who has travelled far and now knows a great many things from romancing people of the Empire and Dynasty, even far Tal’dorei—always ended his sentences making Jester feel better about the world, her heart always fuller after she conversed with him. His perfect compliments always served to endear her, like her mother’s kisses on her forehead or the smell of the garden fresh in the mornings.

“They can deny all that you are,” Artagan says, and the gleam of his smile is extraordinary. “But they can’t deny that you are _filthy_ fucking rich.”

Jester smiled.

The other two would become just as universal soon enough. She believed in it with her entire heart.

* * *

And then Artagan got married.

It came as a… total and complete shock to her system. A shock to the order of the world, incongruent with everything that she knew about and of him. She practically grew up with the man, the two of them as children would race the halls screaming and laughing, causing an uproar every hallway they traversed. Artagan is the person who would distract the cook while Jester crawled on her hands and feet, trying to stifle her giggles as he spun some dizzying string of lies that would entertain the others just long enough for Jester to grab the jar of cookies. Or that summer they spent fixated on poor Blud, just trying to get by and tripping on his feet because his boots were inexplicably tied together. He nearly consulted an oracle until Marion caught on and forced the pair to come clean.

_That_ was Artagan.

Her best friend. Oh, mighty Traveler. Since when do mighty travellers _settle_? 

Perhaps she was being unfair. It’s not as if Jester hasn’t envisioned for herself the perfect wedding, with the perfect dress and the perfect partner, their suit sharp and embroidered and intricate, beautiful enough to stand against her dress. Oh, or perhaps they would wear a dress! Their outfits could contrast each other’s, theirs more fluid against the shape of their body while Jester’s swirled around her dress in an array of colours that blended in this concoction of beauty if she twirled too fast. She would quite like to get married someday.

Artagan never did. Artagan only talked of the various people he would spread his legs for, a frequent companion to some of the finer folk who came into the city for business and pleasure. Or just pleasure. Artagan was rather memorable after all, though not as memorable as Jester’s own mother, and he’d taken to flirting with some of the guests who traversed their halls since he turned 19, having made up on his birthday he quite liked spending money on other people’s behalf. And since he didn’t want to run Jester dry…

Jester would’ve let him spend away her entire fortune if she knew Artagan’s canoodling would’ve led to this.

Artagan is wearing this beautiful mess between a dress and a suit. It’s black with white stripes cascading down the length of his front, and though his rather shapely legs are framed with a well-fitting embroidered pants—Jester pouted through the seamstress stitching endless patterns of flowers, Artagan not breaking his eye-contact with her as he hurled orders out to the poor woman—the back is covered by a long tail, perfect frills patterning down him. It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, _her best friend is beautiful_ , and he is marrying a man from Zadash, a man Artagan didn’t even meet in the Chateau.

“I met him all on my own,” Artagan sniffed. His long, elegant fingers twisted around a sapphire ring, and it glittered the same colour as Jester’s skin. “You should be proud of me.”

“… I am,” Jester finally said, forcing away the pout to give him a wide, if slightly insincere smile. It wasn’t like she could judge Artagan—the heart sways you in many ways, and if this weren’t a blatant cash grab on her friend’s part, perhaps she could forgive in him the abrupt announcement he would soon be leaving the Chateau and spending the next six months all the way back in the Empire, meeting the groom’s people.

The groom.

Jester scowls at the groom’s back when Artagan’s eyes flit away from her, the two of them gazing at the handsome blue man who now says, his voice deep, “I do.” The scowl is only momentary of course, almost imperceptible, just a brief twitch of her lips, and normally the minute movements she’s perfected over the years would serve to call to attention the man who would normally sit beside her at functions of this order. At any other wedding, Artagan would’ve caught her expression from the corner of his eyes and he would’ve twitched back a smirk, perhaps made a small gagging motion in his own right. Or twisted his wrist just enough to imitate jacking off as someone highly important spoke with their words delicate caresses.

The Gentleman refuses to give out a good given name, and Jester finds that incredibly suspicious. He also sweats a lot, much too much, and though Jester would normally consider it a sign of suspicion, even she had to acknowledge it was part of his water genasi heritage, and that Artagan actually probably wouldn’t mind the moisture perspiring off his skin. Her friend has strange fixations, all of them of which Jester knows.

The groom has a smooth voice too, and his clothes are fancy, the white of his silk shirt a contrast against his deep blue skin. His amused grin when Artagan trills out in a sultry voice to an extremely tired priest, “I _do_ ,” seems… genuine enough.

Which is good.

Jester looks down at her clasped hands, at the rings on them, and finds, mortifyingly, tears that are working against her, coating her eyes. She hastily wipes them with a handkerchief, and notices with relief that Artagan seems not to have noticed. 

It’s a good thing, that her friend’s now husband finds him funny.

She watches Artagan pull him by his shirt into this messy, needy kiss, and the two of them seem to be trying to consume each other. The Gentleman’s fingers thread through Artagan’s hair. The others in attendance—the dreaded Sharpes, who thankfully ignore Jester’s nod when she passed them to the front seat, Blud in the back, a huge Goliath woman named Sarah who came with the groom, various other dignitaries to whom she has a passing understanding with, and… her shoulders tighten as she forces her back upright, her dear friend from the east spire, the enigmatic Lord Widogast—clap politely, but their intensity is no match for the heat of the two men making out.

Jester raises her hands and claps, louder than all of them. Artagan’s arms wrap around the Gentleman’s, and the Gentleman grins, a hand reaching out to rest at the dip of Artagan’s waist. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture, and she finds herself looking away, fingers clenched beside her suddenly.

Jester Lavorre thinks losing a best friend is like losing part of your soul.

“You aren’t losing him,” an accented voice says suddenly, and Jester nearly jumps up, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the intake of breath that customarily greeted the familiar, warm Zemnian voice that she steadily has carved into her life these past few months. Caleb’s face is flushing red as he sees Jester’s alarm and he curls into himself further as Jester blinks, thankful she’s no longer crying and hoping the fact that she’s _been_ crying isn’t too obvious to him. Though she did sit in the front, perhaps he saw her hand raise, saw the hint of the handkerchief from his seat.

Hopefully he thought it tears of joy, but from his furrowed eyebrows, Jester knows she’s not nearly that lucky. She never is with him, Lord Widogast seems to see through every fib she throws him.

“Cayleb,” she says with delight, and she pulls him into this wide embrace, hoping the suddenness of her exclamation of his name will distract him from unspooling the thread he so clearly has caught onto. “Thank you for coming, oh my gosh! Doesn’t the Traveler”—others might say that nickname sarcastically, but Jester will give it every bit of power it deserves, every bit of respect—“look so fucking hot? Aren’t his eyes gleaming like emeralds? I suggested that shade of red around his eyes, I told him he would look so good his husband might just drop dead at the sight of hiiiiiim.”

She hopes _drop dead_ didn’t come out as viciously as it sounded to her own ears.

“I, um.” Caleb is flustered, like she hoped he would be. He wears black robes, humble but elegant like would befit an academic from the Cerberus Assembly, and Jester’s eyes drag over his shoulders—they frame his shoulders extraordinarily well, Jester is struck with the inspiration to draw him, he’d agree if she asked—as he swallows, trying to figure out what to say to her barrage of questions and comments. “Ja, the Traveler”—Caleb is the only other person who doesn’t say _Traveler_ ironically—“indeed looks. Incredibly attractive, he was wise to listen to your advice. Lucky to have you.”

Jester stares at him, trying to force back that well of wetness, but of course he sees through that too, and gently presses his hand against her shoulder, the two of them sitting. The sunlight streaming into the church makes Caleb’s hair look like fire, as much a beacon close to her as it is muted behind the tinted blue glass of the east spire. Jester finds herself lost in the vibrant fiery red before her gaze snaps to his crisp blue eyes. “I heard he is leaving for a few months,” he says gently.

It’s like that sentence breaks the dam inside Jester. “All the way to _Zadash_ ,” she whimpers, whispering it so that Artagan isn’t distracted from all his _fucking_ happiness. Her dress bunches around her, and Jester’s fingers press over the green fabric, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Normally Artagan would do this for her, and she for him. “Which is fine, you know!” Her lips widen into this smile once more, like a flower in bloom, and when Caleb’s eyebrow raises, Jester resists the urge to shrivel. “I just… six months.” Her voice breaks when she says that. “He said so two months ago! If I’d known earlier… and he’s doing it for”—her head twists, looking frantically for any onlookers, but she and Caleb are given a wide berth—“ _money_ , I have so much money, Cayleb…”

Caleb’s expression stills, and then he sighs. “Perhaps, Madame Lavorre,” he says, and he awkwardly leans back, hand running through his hair. “Perhaps it’s… some level of financial independence that he’s looking for.” Caleb’s gaze is somewhere between her freckled nose and her left eye.

Jester frowns, and then good-naturedly pushes back his one shoulder playfully. Caleb winces with her touch, and Jester remembers too late how _delicate_ he is. Even the gentlest little squeezes of his arm can leave little marks. “Sorry!” she squeaks. “But Cayleb, is it freedom if it’s just the Gentleman’s money? What does he have that I can’t also give?” She looked to him from the corner of his eye, and _ugh_ , the Gentleman is kissing his fingers now, kissing the ring _on_ his finger… “He could’ve stayed at the Chateau forever.” _Like me_ , she thinks, and she’s not being bitter, she’s _not_.

Caleb’s jaw is clenched. He looks like he’s heavily debating saying something.

Jester bristles, crossing her arms. “I’m an _adult_ , Cayleb,” she snaps, a tinge of frustration in her tone. Everyone always measures what they say when they talk to her, the right concoction of words to endlessly please her—and she likes that, but sometimes when Caleb wavers, something just on the _tip_ of his tongue, it makes her lose her patience. “Whatever you have to say, just talk to me.”

“Financial. Independence. From _you,_ Madame Lavorre.” He finally meets her eyes.

Jester stares at him with confusion and outrage. The six words register in her mind, but as her mouth twitches, trying to form a response to that, to the remorse in his pretty light eyes that she could see endless depths into, there is a delicate clearing of the throat, one that is wholly familiar to her in its tone and cadence.

She twirls away from Caleb and hides from his gaze in pulling Artagan into a wide hug, absolutely ignoring the broad-shouldered man beside him as she does so. From the corner of her eye—she’s avoiding his gaze, goddamn it, but there is something magnetic about soft pink lips—she can see Caleb grinning at his back as he nods his head in respect to the groom, and she buries her head further into the crook of Artagan’s shoulder. “Oh my gosh,” she says, and her voice is tear-stained—she can’t quite hide it from him, she isn’t _used_ to hiding it from him—as she tries to form her congratulations. “Oh my gosh, Artagan. You looked so good up there, the ring looks so nice on your fingers.”

“We looked rather extraordinary, didn’t we, dear?” Artagan’s fingers thread through Jester’s hair. The drum of them against her scalp is a comfort, and Jester’s arms tighten around him, as if she could keep the flighty bastard within her grip, with _her_ , here in sunny Nicodranas rather than the dreary Empire.

Jester doesn’t want to think about how it feels like there are birds in her stomach, trying to claw out through her throat.

“Yes,” the Gentleman says in his smooth baritone, and he does not look at Jester. She’s only met him once before, Artagan beaming between the two of them, and Jester isn’t impressed by how he so completely refuses to be anything close to interesting in her presence. Artagan told her of all the places they went, how they absolutely fucked on the beach and danced until their feet were sore, how rich he was, how interesting his company was, but every time Jester interrogated him on his business, he was perfectly off-putting.

“Are you a criminal?” Jester demanded the first time Artagan introduced her to him.

Artagan raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at her.

The Gentleman’s teeth gleamed when he smiled. “My business may skirt a line,” he acknowledged, and he was looking with disinterest at the tea held daintily in his hand. There was emphasis in the way he spoke to her—Jester has enough confidence in her best friend to know he would not marry a man who disrespected her, even for all the money in the world—but whatever dynamism there was in sea-green eyes quietened under her discerning and demanding gaze, leaving Jester feeling… further shut out. Further alone, in a room with three people.

“Lord Widogast here,” Artagan laughs, still holding Jester close, “has graced us with his presence.” His touch on her is very nearly possessive, and Jester can’t help but grin weakly into his pale skin. “Isn’t he just a picture, Gentleman?”

It’s nice to know, Jester decides, as Artagan flashes a smile over her head, that marriage hasn’t dampened Artagan’s general sultry demeanour of being. At least that hasn’t changed.

“A perfect gentleman, I would know.” The Gentleman gives Caleb a keen look. “They speak well of your accolades back in Zadash, Lord Widogast.” Caleb stiffens, and Jester pulls up from Artagan to look between the two of them. A frown starts to work on her face, and she crosses her arms, showing off just casually her impressive biceps, and Artagan winks at her as the Gentleman’s eyes flit to Jester briefly before looking back at Caleb. “If you ever need an intermediary with some of the… characters high up in the Hall of Erudition…”

Caleb looks very, very small.

And then his back straightens, and a languid smile starts to curl on his lips. Jester doesn’t quite like that, like the way Caleb’s nervousness and fumbling disappears as he looks at the other man coolly, doesn’t like the way this man and all his damned _Empire_ -ness is infecting her life and her friends. Doesn’t quite like the way Caleb tilts his head, the perfect picture of courtesy and grace. She knows he came from the dirt, his private history is deeply hidden but the callouses on his fingers tell their own story. And Caleb right now looks like a man ready to thread a tale. “Perhaps we can talk later, but I appreciate the offer. Truly, Oremid Hass is a man best had with pleasant company. And not that of my cat, nothing would ever get done with that particular choice of companion.”

The Gentleman laughs, and Artagan whispers conspiratorially to Jester, “Archmage Hass loves animals,” causing Jester to put her hands to her cheeks as she whispers back, “But _I_ love animals,” as her friend gently reaches out and tugs on the Gentleman’s hand. “Dear, you _know_ I love mixing business and pleasure”—the Gentleman smirks—“but maybe not this instance. Heh, if you’d agreed to have this wedding at Chateau, the great Ruby could’ve sung for us and you wouldn’t even be able to _remember_ to make your little connections.”

Hmm, curious. Jester wonders if Caleb saw the Gentleman’s eyebrow twitch when he said her mother’s stage name. It’s not wholly surprising that part of the Gentleman has a small fixation with her mother, everyone loves Marion. Everyone who knows her falls a little in love with her, they usually forget about Jester in the process unless they can maneuver to use her company as a pathway into the Ruby’s company. The only person who didn’t was… Artagan.

And he’s leaving.

“You should come by for a performance,” Jester suddenly says, loudly. A couple of the other guests turn to look at her but she ignores them, gazing fixedly at the Gentleman until he looks back at her, his expression a mystery. “Mama loves the Traveler too, you should get to meet her before you two leave for Zadash.” She smiles, like this isn’t a desperate ruse to get Artagan to stick around for even one more week. “Her schedule is kind of _packed_ but she can maybe do a performance like… next week, or—”

“I have urgent business to attend to back home,” the Gentleman interjects airily, waving his hand in the air. “People to meet, things to do.” His eyes meet Artagan’s, and Artagan smiles with all his teeth, tilting his head. His curly red hair falls over one shoulder. “One particular person to do,” he adds, and Artagan’s hand on his tightens.

“Perhaps someday,” Artagan assures Jester. He pouts. “We simply _must_ hold one more event here, perhaps we can visit back sooner than anticipated. The Gentleman’s old crew didn’t visit, I was looking so forward to meeting good old Tusktooth.”

“Tusktooth?” Jester says at the same time Caleb does. Their eyes meet and his flush deepens, looking down to his polished boots as Jester giggles. “Your friend didn’t visit?” Her voice drops into something that approaches pity as she watches a vein twitch on his lovely blue forehead. As much as she dislikes the clearly shady figure Artagan has decided to intertwine himself with, she thinks it’s rather sad that the man only brought one guest on his part for a surprise wedding in Nicodranas. As shocked as she was by Artagan’s wedding, of course she would come, she would always come for him.

The Gentleman’s mouth twists, as if sensing her pity. “He’s a captain,” he says, by way of explanation. A tinge of something that approaches nostalgia enters his tone, and a hand runs over his face, fingers through his goatee before he lowers his hand once more. “The whims of the sea are… unforgiving, Madame Lavorre.” He sighs, giving Artagan this half-smile. “Shall we?” His voice darkens with insinuation, dark eyes glittering where the light catches them.

Artagan’s grin is truly dangerous. His hand tightens over the Gentleman’s own like a promise, and he raises it to kiss his knuckles, this impish smile curling over his lips. “Give me one moment with my dear friend, my sweet.” Jester considers herself rather impressive for not making a gagging motion at the term of endearment. “You too, handsome.”

Caleb blinks, and takes a step back, running his gloved hand through his hair as he bows awkwardly. “Ja, um. Good day, Artagan. Gentleman.” His voice turns more gentle as he gives Jester a small smile. “I’ll see you, Jester. Your garden’s roses are coming in beautifully.”

Jester flushes, and stares at his retreating back, at the minimalistic Zemnian designs adorning the shoulders of his coat, before she swivels to look at the Gentleman, checking the time on his probably very fancy watch. “Oh man,” she sighs, lip jutting out as she gazes back at Artagan. “You… you’re actually doing it, aren’t you?” The heartbreak in her voice is too evident. “You’re leaving Nicodranas, with a fancy husband. Gonna live in a fancy house that’s not my house. Gonna travel.” _Without me_.

Artagan looks at her with this fierce expression. “Jester Lavorre,” he says, and his voice is tight. His hand reaches out to her face and his thumb dances under her one eye, wiping the moisture still there. “You are my best friend.” His fingers run over her dress’s front, fixing up the creases where Jester missed them. Jester in turn starts to fuss with the lapels of his coat. “You are my favourite person. And that does not change just because you’re not my only person.” His eyes narrow at Jester’s still slumped ears, and Jester tries to quirk them back up to their usual enthusiasm. “We will visit, I will make us visit. And we will be fabulously wealthy and beautiful together. I just… need…” Artagan’s voice falters.

“You just need,” she finishes, and gives him a watery smile. She tries not to think about what Caleb told her, but it drums through her head— _financial freedom from you, Madame Lavorre_. The stilted pauses between those words could’ve filled a lifetime. “I guess I crowded your life pretty hard, huh?” Her lower lip trembles. “I just… I just need too, and, uh.” She grins, and it’s once again insincere. “Have fun okay! Send me so many pastries! And letters.”

“Jester…” Artagan reaches out for her shoulder, but he freezes when Jester takes a step away, already turning to look at the door.

“Mama will be missing me,” she calls over her shoulder, and she’s walking away form him, her small heels clicking against the floor. She knows she must paint a rather solitary pathetic figure, and she fixates on the romance of a slight woman against the heavy archway of the church to distract herself from the very small picture of the groom watching her walk away. Part of it might be that a sick part of her might feel very pleased that she managed to discolour some part of his day. She hates it, hates this, wants to push it down, down, _down_ —but after all, hasn’t she spent so many fucking years smiling through their antics and waiting for that to be enough to make him stay? Stay with _her_?

She thankfully does not run into Caleb and his too-seeing eyes as she makes her way back to her carriage. It’s not as if he’s a particularly perceptive man, but on Jester his gaze is exact and it reminds her of things she would rather not think about. Reminds her of cloudy days and the sensation of her throat swallowing when her mother asks her if she’s alright as she prepares the right string of words.

She doesn’t want to think about what it means that she continually circles him. Continues to crane her neck trying to catch a glimpse of a perfect face through a muted window.

The wheels of the carriage splash against mud along the pathway back to the Lavish Chateau, and Jester rests her head against the window, looking at the sun shining crisp and vibrant, like Artagan’s beautiful ring and his bright eyes. She thinks of his hand in the Gentleman’s, thinks of their exquisite happiness, and loses herself to her surroundings.

If she looks miserable, there is no one else here to judge it.


End file.
